


The Nightmare Trap

by MistressPandora



Series: Gods of War [5]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst, But still trauma, But the ending is fluffy I promise, Did I mention angst, Flashbacks, Gen, It's from John's POV so you don't "see" the flashback, Jamie has a nightmare about Jack Randall, Violent Nightmare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:01:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23271397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressPandora/pseuds/MistressPandora
Summary: It was an uneventful hunting trip, peaceful with just the three of them in the woods, camping rough. The quiet night turns terrifying when Jamie has a violent nightmare and John finds himself on the receiving end of his berserker rage.
Series: Gods of War [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1653670
Comments: 20
Kudos: 68
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	The Nightmare Trap

**Author's Note:**

> This was a tough one to tag. Canon-compliant rape/trauma is alluded to (thinly) but not shown or discussed. This is the reason I went with a Mature rating.
> 
> [MadamFraser](https://madamfraser.tumblr.com/) rolled a 19 for the next Gods of War story and this is the result. Thank you for your patience, Madam!
> 
> This also fills my Bad Things Happen Bingo Square: **"I Know You're in There Somewhere" Fight**

As far as hunting trips were concerned, this one was on the uneventful side. They’d done well, and in the morning their pack mule would be laden with the field-dressed carcasses of two deer and several strings of trout bound for the smokehouse. The autumn sun sank low in the sky as William tended the mule and horses. He unpacked their burdens and took them each to the nearby stream to water, hobbling them in turn as he brought them back to the camp. As he crested the hill from the stream with the final horse, Willie paused to let the animal snuff and nibble at a bramble. Lord John built up the fire, his coat unbuttoned as he crouched over the kindling to block the wind with his back. The state of his papa’s hair was amusing, the leather thong loose and leaves sticking out from all directions. He’d taken a slip down an outcropping; though he was uninjured, he did appear rather worse for wear. Though Papa was a skilled hunter, Jamie Fraser was at home in the wooded mountains. Willie had never met a man who could move so silently through the underbrush, who could disappear into the forest and come out half a mile away on a game trail, a deer slung over his shoulders.

Now Jamie butchered a rabbit for their supper. He’d killed the rabbit with a stone, of course, thrown at an impressive distance. Willie hadn’t even noticed the creature until Jamie had thrown the rock. He breathed in the peace of the setting sun’s mottled light through the trees, watching Jamie and Lord John. His two fathers could not be more different, yet they were bound by something Willie could not name. For a time, he’d thought that perhaps it was himself that kept them loyal to each other. But they had been friends before he was born and would be still regardless. Perhaps it was honor that kept them linked? But no. They were kindred spirits, Papa and Jamie. 

Jamie had told Willie about his half-sister. He’d met Brianna McKenzie, spoken with her no more than twice before she had disappeared with her husband and children. Jamie explained that Brianna had been raised by another man, that he’d sent Mother Claire to someone else when he went to the Battle of Culloden. Willie wished he could speak with Brianna about that. She’d come willingly to their father, accepting him as her “Da.” 

Their father. _His_ father. Willie tried it out in his mind, tried to reconcile a name for the man who had sired him. Perhaps in time he would find something comfortable to call him, something that didn’t feel like a betrayal to Papa. Whatever that something was, “father” was not it.

From what he’d learned from Mother Claire, Brianna still referred to the man who had raised her as “Daddy.” Jamie Fraser had earned the name “Da” for her. But “Da” was too familiar and didn’t feel right, not yet. He would have to remain Jamie for now.

The sparks grew to something warm and tall, and Papa sat back on his heels, a pleased smile on his face as he watched the fire.

“Well done, John,” Jamie said. There was mischief in his blue eyes. “My granddaughter could do almost as well.”

John shot Jamie a sideways glance. “That’s because her mother is a pyromaniac.” Papa rose and brushed off his breeches. “It must be a family trait.”

“Aye, that’s as maybe,” Jamie conceded. “But who sent her every volatile compound he could get his hands on just because she asked, aye?” He raised an eyebrow and jabbed at the air between himself and John with his bloody knife.

John snorted. “As if you have any more power than I to deny your daughter anything that her heart desires.”

Jamie laughed and shook his head. “Aye, ye’re right about that.”

They passed the evening in companionable banter. Papa and Jamie swapped war stories and told bawdy jokes. Jamie roasted the rabbit meat along with a few potatoes they’d brought and watercress that he had foraged. Willie eyed the leaves in his bowl with a skeptical brow. He resigned himself to the ordeal when Jamie explained that it was at Mother Claire’s insistence he added them. Papa shot down his feeble arguments with that raised-brow look of his that permitted no argument. “If Mother Claire says it is important, then it is.”

The night was clear and crisp and the three of them laid down in their blankets without tents. They arranged themselves near enough to touch if they stretched an arm, Papa in the space between Jamie and Willie. Their camp lay in a small clearing, their fire banked but warm. They watched the stars overhead through the swaying branches of the pines and Jamie told tales of highland myths and monsters. This led to the local legend of Jamie’s father Brian, who was believed to be a selkie with his jet black hair, who stole away Ellen MacKenzie from her brothers and made her his bride. Willie drifted to sleep, listening to stories of his extended family in Scotland. Uncles, grandparents, cousins galore, all brought to vivid life with Jamie’s words and love of them.

* * *

Lord John had no way of knowing how long he’d been asleep. It could not have been much more than an hour or two and the sky was still a starry pitch. He awoke to the sound of a man stirring near him. It was Jamie, thrashing in his bedroll and murmuring in Gaelic. At first, John thought Jamie was just talking in his sleep, but then John caught the distressed tone of his sleep-fogged voice.

“Jamie?” he whispered. Something shifted in Jamie’s voice and he heard fear, anger in the foreign tongue. John reached for Jamie’s wrist, touched it lightly with his fingertips. “Jamie,” he whispered again with more insistence. “Jamie, are you alright?” He closed his hand around Jamie’s wrist.

The result was immediate. In the space of a single heartbeat, Jamie was atop him, straddling him with his hands around John’s throat. John grabbed for Jamie’s hands, wrists, anything he could reach to break Jamie’s grip. “Jamie!” John tried to yell, but he couldn’t get enough air through. 

Jamie was astride him, trapped in some apparent nightmare, strangling him. Jamie growled something unintelligible in Gaelic, his grip on John’s throat tightening. John’s vision began to go blurry round the edges. Christ, Jamie was going to kill him if John couldn’t rouse him. 

“Wake up!” John gasped , but nothing. Barely a noise. He didn’t want to hurt Jamie, but he might not have a choice. If he could just get leverage, get a leg free and roll him over. But no, Jamie had him thoroughly pinned.

In a surge of desperate inspiration, John grabbed a lock of Jamie’s hair and pulled sharply to the side. Jaime let out a yelp and his grip on John’s throat loosened enough that John was able to suck in a breath. “Jamie! Christ, wake up!” 

Jamie snarled something that sounded like an English name, but not one John recognized.

“It’s me, Jamie,” John tried to say, his voice powerless under the strong hands around his throat. His windpipe ached and his lungs burned. John planted one foot and heaved himself upward, fighting to get some leverage under him, to tip the scales in his favor. 

“Papa?” came Willie’s voice in the dark, hazy with sleep. “Shit, Papa, how can I--”

“Stay back,” John managed. He had left his dagger with his coat, but even if he’d had it, he wouldn’t use it on Jamie. It was clear that the man had no notion what he was doing. John heaved again with that planted foot. He bucked his hips up against Jamie, nearly succeeding in throwing the larger man off balance. Jamie let go of John’s throat with one hand, glorious air filling his lungs in a rush. “Please, Jamie.” Jamie’s eyes were unfocused, mad. John had no notion what he saw behind them, but it was not him. 

John got an arm between them in the disorientation and struck Jamie across the jaw. It wasn’t hard and John was instantly guilt-ridden, but dear God, Jamie could kill him if this continued. He should have been more afraid, perhaps. But as it were, Grey could only focus on keeping the two of them alive from one moment to the next.

Willie said something else, but John didn’t hear it. The last thing he wanted was for Jamie to accidentally hurt Willie, and he knew Jamie would feel the same way, were he in his right mind. 

Except he wasn’t. _Damn it, Fraser, I know you’re in there._

“Back,” John said to Willie, praying his words were audible and his meaning clear. 

Jamie was impossibly strong, and John could do little more than hold on and steal breaths as he may. He tried shoving with his hip again at the same time as he yanked a lock of Jamie’s hair. The combination was enough for John to wrestle Jamie to his back, freeing John’s throat. He continued to snarl and mutter in Gaelic, but at least John could breath now. He sucked in greedy gulps, willing his vision to clear.

“God damn it all, James Fraser, wake up!,” John wheezed, still trying to force air through his aching throat. Jamie’s hands came at him, curled like claws, and John seized him by both wrists and pinned him to the dirt.

There was that English name, something intelligible and detestable in the roiling Gaelic. _Randall_. Who the bloody hell was Randall? It didn't matter. Whoever Randall was--or had been--Jamie seemed damned intent on killing him. Except that John was currently serving as stand-in for the bastard, and thus himself in rather mortal peril.

From this angle, the mix of terror and rage on Jamie's face tore at John's guts. "Please wake up, Jamie," he prayed. Jamie raised up and made to headbutt John, and John narrowly avoided a cracked skull. 

"Bloody hell, Papa, are you alright?" Willie was up now, hovering at a safe distance. From the tone of his voice John thought he was struggling to keep from diving into the skirmish.

Jamie made another lurching attempt to brain him. This time John had to release one of Jamie's wrists to avoid the blow. Jamie reversed his attack, thrashing backward into the ground. "Christ," John swore. "Hold his arms before he hurts himself."

Willie, bless him, did not hesitate. He captured Jamie's free arm and drove it back to the ground with both of his. At last the boy had Jamie's other hand under control as well. John hooked his ankles over Jamie's legs and pushed down on Jamie’s shoulders with his hands. It was futile, John knew, as he was far smaller than Jamie. Even without the berserker rage, he would easily be able to overpower John.

Tears began falling from Jamie's eyes, sparkling like liquid tragedy in the starlight. John felt his own walls crack and crumble at the sight of it. "Oh God, Jamie," he begged. Jamie thrashed, but he was tiring, the Gaelic pouring out of him in broken sobs. John choked back his own tears, his broken heart pounding in his own ears. "Whatever you're seeing, it's not real. I know you're in there, James Fraser, now wake up!"

Willie leaned over Jamie, and spoke with the calm voice of one trying to soothe a wild animal. "Jamie," he said, face close to his ear. "Come back to us. Father, please." Willie’s voice cracked on the word _father_ and Jamie's struggles began to subside. "Da. Da, please wake up. It's your Willie. You're having a nightmare, Da."

After one startled thrash, Jamie settled. His wild eyes grew clear, searching his surroundings until they landed on Willie's face. "Willie?'

Willie had been holding back his own tears and they fell now with a near-hysterical, gasping sob of relief. "Yes, Father, I'm here. You're safe." 

John let out a long exhale and dropped his forehead momentarily to Jamie's chest. "Oh, thank God." He rolled off of Jamie and sat in the dirt and fallen leaves of the clearing, taking deep breaths as his hands trembled from reaction. John felt worn thin and weary, as if he had just lived through a battle. 

Willie let go of Jamie's arms and sat back on his heels. "Are you hurt?" he asked his father.

"Nay, lad." Jamie sat up and stared into his son's eyes, tears still falling from his own. "Did you call me...'Da?' Or...was that...was that the nightmare?" His voice shook, as if he was afraid of the answer yet more afraid of not asking.

"I did," Willie answered with a slow nod.

Jamie wrapped his arms around his son's shoulders and pulled him into a tight embrace that Willie returned without hesitation. "Thank you, _mo ghille_." 

The sight of Jamie truly embracing his son--their son--for the first time as his father helped to replace all the broken pieces of John's heart. Jamie pressed a kiss to the top of Willie's head. Holding his son in one strong arm, Jamie reached out for John and pulled him close as well. 

"Did I hurt ye, John?"

Grey shook his head. "I'll manage. Let's be honest, this was far from the worst beating of my life." His throat would be sore for quite a while, and he would likely have dashing bruises to show for it later.

Jamie nodded, a wry smile warning his haunted face. "Aye. I reckon so."

Several moments passed in which the only sound was the gentle breeze through the soaring pines and the distant mourn of owls. Willie stifled a yawn with the back of his hand, which turned out to be contagious. Jamie at last released Willie and John from his embrace and scrubbed his palms over his face. 

John watched his friend struggle to hold his composure, his own heart aching to comfort him. “I will never ask what haunts you,” John said, his voice little more than a whisper in the night. “But will you be able to go back to sleep? I’ll watch over you, if that would bring you some comfort.” 

Jamie’s answering smile was grateful and sincere. “Nay, John. I’ll bide well an’ I ken ye’re both close.”

“We are, indeed,” John answered. He reached across the narrow space between them and gave Jamie’s left hand a brief squeeze of reassurance. 

Willie stood and brushed the dirt and debris from his legs. Without a word, he dragged their three bedrolls closer to each other, shaking them out to remove the pine needles and leaves kicked up in the struggle. He arranged them so that Jamie’s was in the middle, less than a foot of bare ground between them. He added some wood to the fire, built it up to a warm glow, the flames safely banked. “Will that do, Father?” Willie asked.

Jamie nodded, giving Willie a grateful smile. “Aye, lad. It’ll do fine.”


End file.
